“His desire had better be complied with,” observed the apothecary.  “He is able to walk thither now, but I will not answer for his being able to do so two hours hence.  It is a bad case,” he added in an under-tone to Leonard.

Feeing the apothecary, Leonard set out with the piper, and passing through Cripplegate, they entered the open fields.  Here they paused for a moment, and the little dog ran round and round them, barking gleefully.

“Poor Bell!” cried the piper; “what will become of thee when I am gone?”

“If you will entrust her to me, I will take care of her,” replied Leonard.

“She is yours,” rejoined the piper, in a voice hoarse with emotion.  “Be kind to her for my sake, and for the sake of her unfortunate mistress.”

“Since you have alluded to your daughter,” returned Leonard, “I must tell you what has become of her.  I have not hitherto mentioned the subject, fearing it might distress you.”

“Have no further consideration, but speak out,” rejoined the piper.  “Be it what it may, I will bear it like a man.”

Leonard then briefly recounted all that had occurred, describing Nizza’s disguise as a page, and her forcible abduction by Parravicin.  He was frequently interrupted by the groans of his hearer, who at last gave vent to his rage and anguish in words.

“Heaven’s direst curse upon her ravisher!” he cried.  “May he endure worse misery than I now endure.  She is lost for ever.”

“She may yet be preserved,” rejoined Leonard.  “Doctor Hodges thinks he has discovered her retreat, and I will not rest till I find her.”

“No—­no, you will never find her,” replied the piper, bitterly; “or if you do, it will be only to bewail her ruin.”

His rage then gave way to such an access of grief, that, letting his head fall on Leonard’s shoulder, he wept aloud.

“There is a secret connected with that poor girl,” he said, at length, controlling his emotion by a powerful effort, “which must now go to the grave with me.  The knowledge of it would only add to her distress.”

“You view the matter too unfavourably,” replied Leonard; “and if the secret is of any moment, I entreat you to confide it to me.  If your worst apprehensions should prove well founded, I promise you it shall never be revealed to her.”

“On that condition only, I will confide it to you,” replied the piper; “but not now—­not now—­to-morrow morning, if I am alive.”

“It may be out of your power then,” returned Leonard, “For your daughter’s sake, I urge you not to delay.”

“It is for her sake I am silent,” rejoined the piper.  “Come along—­come along” he added, hurrying forward.  “Are we far from the pest-house?  My strength is failing me.”